Kirk Russell - Shell Games

“Yes, sir.”

“Had you already guessed they were Federal agents?”

“A guess isn’t worth anything.”

“What’s the answer?”

“I’d assumed they were.”

“So you thought you’d confront them. They asked you to move your vehicle and you refused.”

“I asked to see their badges and by then I was on the phone to Douglas.”

“You’d better be careful here, John. You’ll have only yourself to blame, so if you have any questions when that time comes you can get all your answers at home. You’ll hurt the SOU, as well, if you go head-to-head with the FBI. They’ve asked for our coopera-tion and they say they’ve passed on all the information they can without compromising their sources, which as you know better than anyone here, is another way of saying they can’t risk revealing anything at this point. Now, they want you out of the picture.”

“Douglas asked for that?”

“No, it was way over his head, and I can tell you you’re gam-bling everything you’ve worked for because you don’t like the Bureau’s style. They won’t talk to us, so you’re going to show them up by exposing them.”

“Chief, they-”

“Don’t argue with me and I don’t want to hear any explana-tions. There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know. If you want to take your career down and ruin the unit you built, then I don’t have time for you.” Keeler’s face reddened. “I’ve never taken you for a damn fool. Shut the door on your way out.”

Marquez drove past the Best Western motel before leaving Sacramento. He wanted to see Li’s Toyota parked in the lot and know that he was still here. He’d meant to talk more with Keeler today about Li. He would have done it on the way out if the conversation hadn’t gone so downhill. With the death of the boy and with Li cooperating Marquez hadn’t done anything to see that charges were at least filed against Li, and he knew Keeler expected that at a minimum.

An hour and a half later he was back in the Bay Area, Keeler’s words ringing in his ears as he was escorted down a hallway in the FBI building in San Francisco. Douglas was waiting for him, his face hidden by an ancient computer monitor.

“Is that you, Marquez?”

“It is.”

“Give me a minute.”

Marquez took a chair and looked around the tiny space. At least Douglas had it to himself. A photo in a gilt frame showed Douglas with one arm around his wife and the other around two sons who looked about twelve and fourteen, sturdy, cheerful-looking kids, and Marquez remembered the last photos he’d seen when the boys had been much younger. On the wall to his right was a letter of commendation from the director, and on the desk a small triathlon trophy won that Douglas used as a paperweight.

“You’re winning medals,” Marquez said.

“It was handicapped for age. There was a big difference, let me tell you.” He slid his chair over, pride on his face that the paper-weight had been noticed. His face looked like smooth rock this afternoon. “Have you had lunch, Marquez?”

“You want to do this over lunch?”

“It’s not going to be any easier up here.”

“All right, let’s go eat.” Marquez reached down to his side and lifted his laptop. “I brought this. We got a little shaky footage down near Morgan Hill the other night that I want to show you.”

“Is this where the girlfriend got rolled down the hill?”

“Yes.”

“They doped her up.”

“That’s what we’re hearing. We lost a van we were following, but we got a few murky shots I want to show you after lunch.”

They walked to a Japanese place that Douglas said was cheap and not far away. The sky was ragged overhead now, but the side-walk was sunlit. They talked about baseball and the 49ers, what they had coming up, tried to reconnect in some way as they walked to the restaurant. But the sports talk didn’t get them anywhere and they sat at a small maple table now in a corner of a room that filled with light every time the sun moved from behind clouds. Marquez ordered a small plate of tuna sashimi, a bowl of rice, miso soup, as though the soup could touch the emptiness inside. He felt like a diplomat on the losing side of a war, waiting to hear what the terms of surrender would be. Ready to protest but knowing his words would fall on deaf ears. It wasn’t his career in jeopardy that had made him call Douglas. It was the threat to the SOU, the way Keeler had laid it out.

He ate and looked at Douglas, again, his smooth dark face, sturdy build, winning a triathlon, thinking that Douglas must work hard at it. It took a particular discipline, a strength of mind more than body. He wasn’t in bad shape himself, but nothing like that. He knew they weren’t that far apart in age and that when they were kids there couldn’t have been more than a handful of black agents with any hope of a career path like Douglas had going in the FBI. Things had gradually changed and Douglas had had the guts to go after that change.

“What do you think of Mueller?” Marquez asked, keeping the conversation on the FBI for the moment.

“Good director. Sorry we lost him out here.”

“Do you want to go east yourself?”

“Not as bad as you want to ship me.”

“I’m having a hard time figuring out what the Bureau wants from us.”

“Communication.”

“Like talking to God.”

“That’s because you keep asking me to tell things I can’t.”

“You had two agents tailing me and I don’t get an explanation.”

Douglas smiled suddenly. “Take it as a compliment, Marquez.”

“Yeah?”

Marquez picked up his chopsticks, ate the sticky rice, and the food did something good for him. He asked about Douglas’s wife, his two boys, and found that he liked him still and could separate him from the Bureau. But he wouldn’t let Douglas buy lunch, didn’t want to owe him for anything.

Then they were back in Douglas’s office. Marquez booted up, showed Douglas what they had. Shauf had managed to get photos of the van. She’d picked a spot ahead of them on the road out toward Gilroy and caught faces in a streetlight. He knew already that the photo quality was too poor to enhance. He wasn’t asking Douglas for help with that, just wanted to see his reaction to the passenger’s face, because he had a nagging sense he should know.

“This is who rolled her down the hill?”

“Yes, and the van was stolen.”

“I recognize him,” Douglas said, “and I’m guessing you do too. You’ve got Eduardo Molina there. He’s using the name Carlo. He had plastic surgery just like the boss. That’s why you had trouble recognizing him. He also caught a customs agent bullet in ‘95. It almost killed him. When’s the last time you saw him?”

“I haven’t seen him in fifteen years. We were right there with him on an Oakland street and I didn’t recognize him.”

“I’ve seen that footage, and, yeah, they really did a number on his face. He’s been with Kline all those years. He’s your confirma-tion, Marquez. You’ve been looking at him.”

“I guess I’m slowing down.”

“That’ll be the day.”

Douglas was flattering him now, so there must be a reason. Marquez could tell he was calculating. He watched Douglas fold his arms across his chest.

“We appreciate what you do out there, Marquez.”

“Yeah, how’s it helping you?”

“I know you think we’re protecting poachers and we know Kline is doing a lot of buying, but frankly we don’t know where he is, either. If we did I wouldn’t be sitting here and you know that.”

Douglas stood and came around his desk. “I’m going to bring another agent in and she’s going to show you something we’ve got for your SOU. Call it a gift from the Bureau to make this go a little easier. Your chief tells me you’ve wanted these for a while. Do you want more coffee or anything?”